


hot head and dreamless sleep

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It (The Magnus Archives), Body Modification, Canon Asexual Character, Coming Untouched, Curse Breaking, Cursed Dolls, Developing Relationship, Explicit Consent, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Walking In On Someone, Workplace Sex, ace subtype: ambivalent, nullification, roughly set in s1/precanon, vague sex pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: The funny thing is that Jon doesn’t even realize what’s happened until much later that day.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 29
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bloodsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/gifts).



> i dont really have an explanation,
> 
> for anyone unfamiliar w/ the concept of nullification, in the context of this fic it just means a lack of any genitalia, think ken doll style. its magical and reversible in this fic. 
> 
> jons anatomy is described using the words,  
> \- cock  
> \- slit  
> \- folds 
> 
> title is from thinning by snail mail
> 
> cws in end notes!

The funny thing is that Jon doesn’t even realize what’s happened until much later that day. 

Or, he thinks hysterically, maybe _funny_ isn’t quite right. With one hand hovering over the smooth skin between his spread legs as he looks at himself in the fogged up bathroom mirror he feels less amused and more horrified. 

Perhaps the artifact he’d been idly turning over in his hands all day had been cursed after all. Maybe he shouldn’t have been quite so eager to dismiss it out of hand. Guess this is what he gets for trying to pretend he’s more of a skeptic than he really is. 

“Oh, God,” he mumbles. He takes his glasses off. Puts his head in his hands. “Oh, my God.”

–

So it goes like this: 

Jon goes to work. On his desk there is a little transparent plastic bag with a little plastic doll in it. Jon raises his eyebrows, and picks it up, and tries to sense whether or not there is any particularly malicious energy coming from it. He doesn’t feel anything. He opens the bag, and takes out the doll, and looks at it from every angle. Barbie-like in smoothness. No ball joints to move around. No base to make it stand upright on the desk. It’s just a regular small doll. Something you’d give to a child.

Stupid, he thinks bitterly. What could have possibly driven him to do that, he wonders. Touch what he didn’t know to be safe with his bare hands. Why on _Earth_ –

He sits down on the damp tile floor. The stream of water hits his face but he doesn’t bother moving out of the way. Just closes his eyes. One of his hands slides down his belly again, hesitant and trembling, and pauses right between his hips. He knows what he’s going to find there, if he allows his hand to keep sliding down still, but maybe if he doesn’t feel it, maybe if he doesn’t look –

Jon takes his hand away. He closes his legs, too, for good measure. He keeps his eyes closed as well. 

He’s going to need help. Who is he going to tell? 

Elias is the first to come to mind. Jon shakes his head physically. Not Elias. Sasha, then. Sasha has experience with cursed artefacts. Sasha knows more about this kind of stuff, probably. Jon imagines telling Sasha about his – his _junk_ and grimaces. Tim – Tim wouldn’t be inappropriate, not really, but Jon doesn’t really want to talk about this with him either – the thought makes the tips of his ears burn. 

Martin, then. 

Jon leans backwards. Tilts his jaw up. Water runs down his face and into his mouth. He allows it to. 

Not Martin, either, he settles on eventually. He can research it on his own. Spent years in research, for God’s sake. 

Shower. Dry off. Eat something. Get in bed. Jon goes through the steps with mechanical precision. He settles in bed, and muscle memory tells him to get off. _No,_ he tells his body, and it settles down just a bit. Jon closes his eyes. He manages to sleep. 

–

Martin, somewhat predictably, eventually appears to hover in the doorway of his office the next day.

“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice isn’t loud but it carries, with how quiet the office is. 

Jon looks up from his laptop, startled and on edge. “What?”

Martin frowns. “Are you alright?”

“Doing research,” he says curtly. It’s not going too well – so far all he’s gotten has been various kinds of books. Books about dolls. Doll making manuals. Doll storybooks. Dollhouse construction manuals. Nothing with actual dolls. “Do you need something?”

“Uh. Isn’t that our job?” 

Jon sighs. “Yes.”

Martin opens his mouth and then closes it again. “So…?”

“I just wanted to get a headstart. Doubt you’d know much about this topic.”

If Martin wants to call him out for how unnecessarily rude his tone makes the words sound he doesn’t actually do it. “Try me,” he says instead. 

Jon closes his eyes. “It’s a cursed object, I think. Definitely Flesh.”

“Okay,” Martin says, more chipper than he probably should be after Jon’d sniped at him, wholly unwarranted. Jon starts to feel bad about doing it to begin with. “Uh, body modification, then?”

Jon nods, and then, out loud for good measure, “yes.”

“Permanent? Semi-permanent? Goes away on its own?”

Jon looks away. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Statement giver didn’t say?”

“No.” 

Martin hums thoughtfully. “Email the general information to me and I’ll look through what I have on Flesh artefacts.”

Jon puts his hands back on the keyboard. “Alright.” 

Martin smiles at him, then. “Great,” he says. “I’ll get back to you.”

–

Martin emails him back at around four. Jon’s gotten nowhere in his research so the notification of a new email popping up in the tab he has left open in the background is a welcome surprise. 

“Nothing about dolls,” the email says. “Did find a few things re: books about dolls but I assume you found the same info. Asked Sasha, she hasn’t heard about anything similar either. She’s asking artefact storage people but I’m not sure that’s going to unearth any new leads. Worth checking though in case they know something that hasn’t been recorded or transferred to the digital database, you know how bad the filing systems can get.”

Any other day he’d grumble about the haphazard writing and semi-unprofessional email construction but as it is all Jon thinks about right now is collapsing onto the floor. Just sliding down his chair and continuing until the entirety of his limp body is flat on his back. 

“Thank you,” he writes back. “Can you make this a priority?”

“Sure thing,” Martin emails back less than a minute later. At least there’s that, he guesses. Small comforts. 

–

The skin doesn’t feel any different than the skin around it. Jon pokes and prods at it gingerly, carefully, and tries to compare it to the skin on the rest of his body. 

Soft, he thinks. Unscarred. No signs that anything has ever been there at all. He keeps his touch light, like if he presses down too hard it’s going to split open. Or maybe spread up, he thinks for a moment. What if it’s not Flesh at all, but Stranger? What if it takes his face next? He draws his hand away quickly. Dolls are, after all, more of a Stranger thing than a Flesh thing. 

He stands very still for a few moments. The hammering of his pulse in his throat doesn’t slow down or quicken. The space between his legs doesn’t feel any different than it did a few seconds ago. He allows another few minutes to pass before stepping into the shower, still on edge, but nothing else happens. He doesn’t try touching himself again, though. Not worth the risk, he reasons.

He gets in bed. His body tells him to get off. _No,_ he says. His body listens. He falls asleep and has what could roughly be described as normal dreams. 

–

The following day Jon manages to get a few statements recorded. Tim comes back from the latest research trip with no real news, and Jon puts that into the follow up notes. Tim goes to find leads on the next case on his list. Jon goes back to researching his own predicament. 

Not much to research, he thinks bitterly, clicking idly from link to link. Even changing the parameters from Flesh related to Stranger related gives him no real information. The internal filing system might be good, or it might be bad, but either way it means nothing when there is simply nothing matching the description of what he’s trying to find filed in it. Martin emails him again with what boils down to _nothing, sorry_ and Jon drags his hands down his face. 

Should he just resign himself to the possibility that this is going to be his life from now on? He supposes there’s worse things in the world. Not like he’s _that_ into sex to begin with. Maybe it’s better. Not like there hadn’t been times before his transition that he’d seriously fantasized about this exact scenario, and even after it, a few times, just idly. Times he’d lied in bed disgruntled and annoyed with his body. Times he’d wondered if explaining his asexuality would be easier if he simply had nothing to have sex with. 

Irony, he thinks bitterly. Cruel, cruel irony. 

–

It’s that night that he finally finds the courage to actually properly _inspect_ the area. If it’s going to be that way forever he might as well get used to it. 

Of course, Jon thinks, there’s no guarantee that it’s _going_ to stay that way. Just – he should be prepared for it. 

Shower on. Clothes off. He sits on the floor again, because it feels safe and familiar and consistent by now, and because this way he can’t slip and fall. The water is warm, and Jon spreads his legs slowly, gingerly. 

It takes another twenty or so seconds before he can bear to look. Water drops gather on the wall underneath the shower head. Jon counts to ten and then he looks. 

Skin, he thinks immediately, and then he mentally slaps himself. Of _course_ it’s skin. It’s just – it’s just skin. It still looks the same it’d looked a few days ago. Still feels the same it’s felt the whole time. Soft, and smooth, and completely unmarred. It looks so completely _normal_ it almost makes him nauseous. Like it’s always been like that. 

He brings one trembling hand to where he distinctly remembers his slit used to be, and moves his index finger down, then up again. It just feels like touching skin, at first, so he applies a bit of pressure, and repeats the motion. This time when he gets to the top of the range of his motion he feels _something_. A gasp rips its way out of his throat at the unexpected jolt of muffled pleasure. 

Maybe it’s all still there, he thinks wildly. Not gone. Just covered. He moves the finger, side to side, and it still _feels_ good. Familiar. It just feels _muffled_. Like he’s being touched through multiple layers of thick, soft fabric. 

He takes his hand away. It also feels _weird_. Off-putting, almost. Like the uncanny valley of touch. The space between his thighs doesn’t stop tingling for almost an hour, and when he gets in bed that night he almost snakes a hand between his legs again to try to get off before bed before remembering why he doesn’t want to. Why he can’t.

That night his dreams are more restless. He wakes up tangled up in his sheets, groggy, and confused, and definitely more than a little turned on. He opens his legs to keep his thighs from rubbing together, expecting to feel wetness clinging to the insides of them until he _remembers_.

Fuck, he thinks. Fuck. _Fuck._ This is worse, he thinks gloomily. This definitely makes it worse.


	2. Chapter 2

The sensation spreads so slowly that for a while Jon thinks he must be imagining it. He crosses his legs absently, flexes the muscles of his thighs, and adjusts again. It doesn’t really change anything, so he uncrosses his legs again and settles back into work. He’s not finding anything on his current situation so he might as well get back to work on the cases that are piling up on his desk and on his laptop. 

But the feeling persists, and then it builds, and keeps building, until Jon’s fidgeting restlessly. It takes another few minutes for him to realize he’s absently grinding down on his desk chair. Sensory seeking, he thinks. Inhales sharply. He presses his thighs together and grinds against the chair in a tight circle just to see what it does. Just out of curiosity. 

A jolt of what he knows to be arousal goes through him. Ah, he thinks. Wonderful. 

He tries to ignore it. It must be just a result of his nerves. All that anxiety and tension has to escape his body somehow, eventually. This is just natural. Completely normal. Nothing supernatural about it. He does tend to masturbate more frequently when he’s stressed at work, he reasons. The relief of the realization feels almost tangible. He exhales, inhales, exhales again. It just feels like it’s worse than usual because he hasn’t been able to do anything about it for a few days now. 

But it keeps getting _worse_. The half-absent-minded motions of his hips are nothing more than a tease, a ghost of how this would usually feel. Just pressure. Feathery and inconsistent and light and certainly not even remotely enough. Jon keeps working on his tasks until he’s shaking all over, legs quivering, fingers trembling as he tries to keep typing. It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just something he needs to work through. He grits his teeth and opens his legs forcibly. There, he thinks. Just stop thinking about it. Just focus. 

But nothing he does or tells himself changes how _miserably_ turned on he feels, and eventually, _eventually_ something in him just _snaps_. 

He’s never felt _worse_ , feverish and shaking, in the bathroom with his trousers around his ankles, grinding against the heel of his hand. It doesn’t _help_ as much as it keeps the desperate _need_ just a little further away for just a few blessed moments, which, in this case is as close to _help_ as he can get, he supposes. There’s a spot where his cock would normally be where if he angles his hand just right, if he grinds against the pressure of it he can _almost_ get there, where the skin is sensitive, even if there is nothing coming out of the skin there for him to jerk or rub. Just smooth, soft skin. More sensitive than the rest of it, maybe, but still just skin. 

It’s that spot that he keeps thinking about. Keeps touching. It’s like giving in to the urge of touching himself as properly as he can in this state had unlocked something inside of him that he should’ve kept locked up. Maybe if he’d been stronger, he thinks gloomily, hand working the sensitive, pointless spot, then he could’ve avoided this altogether. 

“Jon?”

Jon freezes. His body doesn’t stop trembling and his hips don’t stop bucking into the touch even after he snaps his hand away from between his legs to cover the general area instead. “Martin,” he chokes out. 

“Ah! I am so sorry,” Martin says, “I swear I didn’t mean to look. But, um, the cursed object you were researching –”

Oh, goddamnit it. No use denying it _now_. 

“Yes, Martin, there is no statement giver, I found the cursed object,” Jon whimpers out. His hips _finally_ still. His face is burning with embarrassment. “Happy?”

“Well,” Martin says in a voice that radiates helplessness, “not really?”

Jon slumps backwards. The tile wall is almost comforting in its coolness and solidity. He chuckles humorlessly. “Right.”

“Uh,” Martin says, a wild look in his eyes as he tries to look anywhere else than Jon’s eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, then?”

Jon closes his eyes. Opens them again. “Sure,” he says. He feels very, very heavy. Embarrassment is starting to flood through him in quick pulses. “I’m so sorry.”

Martin gives him a nervous smile. “Don’t worry about it. Happens to us all.”

Jon highly doubts the veracity of that statement, but something tells him this isn’t the right time to reject an olive branch. Look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. “Right,” he agrees. The space between his legs is still tingling. 

Martin hovers in the doorway. Jon, with his trousers still bunched around his ankles, coughs. “Did you –”

“Oh,” Martin says. He still sounds _mortified_. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

And something in Jon’s gut says _No._ Says _please stay._ Says _help me, please._ Jon’s brain tells his gut _absolutely not._ His mouth, thankfully, chooses to listen to his brain. For the most part. 

“Please don’t tell the others,” he says. He’s going for authoritative, but it seems that that is more of a dream than something he can manifest into reality at the moment. His voice is soft and pleading more than asking, let alone _telling_. 

“I would never,” Martin says. Something tells Jon that he’s telling the truth.

–

Jon gets home. He makes dinner, and then picks at the food as he tries to ignore the aching heat in the pit of his stomach. He does the dishes. He packs up the leftovers and puts them in the fridge. He considers cleaning the fridge out, and decides against it. He gets in the shower. 

Here, he realizes immediately, it’s so much harder to ignore. He washes his hair slowly, and then his face, and then his hands falter, stop in midair. 

No harm in giving it just a little try. Just a few minutes. 

The heel of his hand slowly settles over the sensitive spot right under his pubic bone. Or, sensitive might be stretching it, he thinks, hips slowly grinding against the point of contact. The spot that feels good. He braces himself against the wall and moves his hand, slowly at first, cautiously – like if he isn’t careful the sensation is going to swallow him whole. Like if he isn’t careful he’s not going to be able to stop. Careful, he thinks to himself and bites down on his bottom lip. The tingles spread upwards to his belly and then further up to his pebbled nipples. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. His hand stutters and slips, and he whimpers from the loss of contact. 

He goes to put the hand back where it was, where it felt so good, but before he can he pauses. It’s been a few minutes, he thinks. That’s all what he was going to give himself, wasn’t it? The skin that isn’t his cock throbs, but the feeling isn’t as urgent as it’d been. The arousal is starting to fade. 

He takes his hand away. He might as well finish up here and get in bed. 

–

Predictably enough it doesn’t last. 

He makes it through the morning and most of the early afternoon. It’s just him and Martin in the office today, with Martin typing up something on his laptop at his desk and Jon trying to focus on anything at all long enough to get at least something done. 

He bites his nails. He gnaws on his lips. He sends grumpy emails to everyone he can think of that might be waiting to hear back from him. None of it works. 

By two in the afternoon he’s in the bathroom again, grinding desperately into his own hand, trousers around his knees, held up by the belt he hadn’t bothered to fully undo. If he grinds down _hard _, if he presses his hand into the exact right spot, if he closes his eyes and just allows himself to _feel _, he can _almost_ get there. He can _taste_ it. It’s not like when he starts touching himself idly only to decide he doesn’t feel like finishing and just moves on instead. It’s more like when he’s _almost_ there and a fire truck drives right by his window with all the sirens blaring and startles his orgasm back just out of reach. ____

____Something. An invisible wall. He tries to get through it, over it, but every time he’s almost there it grows in size faster than he can climb._ _ _ _

____“Oh,” comes from the doorway._ _ _ _

____Jon distantly realizes he never got around to locking the door like he meant to. “Sorry,” he half-sobs, unable to think of anything else to say. “I’m sorry.”_ _ _ _

____“It’s okay,” Martin sounds, and he sounds so bewildered – for a good reason, Jon reckons – and confused. “I’ll just, I’ll just go –”_ _ _ _

____“Don’t go,” Jon breathes out before he can stop himself. He licks his already slick lips. “If you want to, I mean. Please stay.”_ _ _ _

____“Oh,” Martin says. He’s red all the way to the tips of his ears. “What, just – watch?”_ _ _ _

____Jon looks at him helplessly. He spreads his legs a little further. “No, I mean – if you want to –”_ _ _ _

____“Jon,” Martin interrupts him, seemingly getting the message immediately. Jon blinks at him hazily. “Do you _actually_ want me to – I mean, is this just the curse making you –”_ _ _ _

____“If you don’t want to, that’s fine, just – just forget I asked,” Jon says. “I just thought – maybe, _maybe_ if I had, uh, help? It might reverse it?”_ _ _ _

____It’s just a wild theory he comes up in the moment. It’s a theory as good as any, he thinks._ _ _ _

____“No,” Martin says. He inhales, as if to brace himself, and then he takes a step forward. “No, I – tell me what to do?”_ _ _ _

____Jon feels like he could _sob_ from relief. “Oh, thank you –”_ _ _ _

____Martin raises his eyebrows, just a little bit. “Jon.”_ _ _ _

____Jon spreads his legs. “You can touch me,” he says. He feels desperate for it suddenly. “Please touch me.”_ _ _ _

____Martin mutters something under his breath, but he reaches both large hands towards Jon, palms landing on his waist, fingers spreading over the small of his back. Jon whimpers. “Martin.”_ _ _ _

____“I just don’t want to,” Martin stutters here, “I don’t want to do something you don’t actually want me to do.”_ _ _ _

____“That’s _ridiculous_ ,” Jon says, “I told you what I want you to do.”_ _ _ _

____“Okay, okay,” Martin hastens to reply. “Just – just lean back for me, okay?”_ _ _ _

____A moan breaks out of Jon. “Fuck,” he says, unsure why the words make him feel like he’s been lit on fire, but he leans back all the same, upper back and shoulders colliding with the cool tile. “Martin, please.”_ _ _ _

____A singular index finger traces a little line down Jon’s body and then stills. “Sure?” Martin asks. Jon’s hips jump, trying to get him to finally _touch_ him, and Martin, worried as he seems to be, snorts. _ _ _ _

____“Please,” Jon says. The embarrassment of begging for it tries to register in his brain but gets pushed down deeper again by the sheer desperation that’s threatening to take over his brain completely._ _ _ _

____“I got you,” Martin mumbles. The finger slides down, over the shape of his pubic bone, and then the smooth, soft skin below it. Martin makes a surprised sound, there, a little _oh_ , and then his finger stills. _ _ _ _

____“Where should I,” he swallows. He moves his finger lightly, up and down, like Jon had, the first time he’d touched himself._ _ _ _

____Jon grabs Martin by the wrist with a trembling hand and guides his hand up a few inches. “Here,” he whispers, mouth dry. “Here.”_ _ _ _

____Martin’s finger over the strip of skin he’s been desperately trying to touch just right to tip himself over some kind of an invisible fence makes him feel like he’s been tased. “Oh, God,” he says, entire body shuddering._ _ _ _

____“Did that hurt? Jon?” Martin asks anxiously, and tries to move his hand away. Jon’s grip tightens around his wrist in protest._ _ _ _

____“God, no, right there,” he grits out. “Right there, Martin.”_ _ _ _

____Jon can’t see the face Martin’s making but he can hear his sigh. “Feel good?” he asks tentatively._ _ _ _

____Jon nods. His hips roll against Martin’s finger, and Martin, blessed, lovely Martin moves his hand so that he can grind the heel of his hand against that spot, and then he’s moving the hand in short, tight circles, and Jon starts _crying_._ _ _ _

____“Fuck,” he sobs, hips twitching wildly. “Don’t stop, please.”_ _ _ _

____“I won’t,” Martin says softly. He doesn’t sound so worried anymore, Jon thinks with feverish relief. Martin moves closer, legs closing around Jon’s, and then his hand switches angle. To keep his hand from cramping, Jon assumes distantly before Martin’s hand picks up speed and force again, and Jon’s brain shuts down, hips tilting towards him, legs spreading as much as they can to make room for his large hand to seal itself over the smooth space between his thighs._ _ _ _

____Martin _doesn’t_ stop. The wave of pleasure reaches an invisible peak, and then it just stays there, right before he can fall over it. Jon rides it stubbornly, legs shaking from the exertion, breath stuttering in his chest, tears of overstimulation sliding down his cheeks. _ _ _ _

____“Jon,” Martin says finally, an apologetic tone in his voice. “Is it working?”_ _ _ _

____“No,” Jon whimpers, and then he bursts into genuine, desperate tears._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw,  
> that walking in on someone warning? yea its for this ch


	3. Chapter 3

After the incident in the bathroom Jon retreats back into his office. For a few brief moments he sincerely considers locking the door, or even barricading it with the various pieces of furniture in his office he’s pretty confident he can move on his own. He doesn’t, if only because it’d be hard to explain to Tim or Sasha why they can’t come in if they do end up both returning from their research mission that might or might not involve breaking into various abandoned buildings. 

Martin, somewhat surprisingly, knocks on the door softly a good half hour later, and then without waiting for a response walks in. 

“Is this something we should discuss?” he asks. His chin is tilted up, almost defiantly. It’s a face Jon hasn’t really seen him make before. 

“Is what something we should discuss?” 

Martin sputters. Jon drags his hands down his face in response. “No,” he says. “Unless you want to talk about it?” 

Because, Jon thinks, it’s possible Martin didn’t like what’d happened. That he’s regretful and wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again. That if Jon has to do this he should do it alone, or ask someone else. It’d be understandable. More than understandable, actually. Not many people want to have freaky eldritch sex with their _boss_. 

“I just,” Martin says, and then his facade drops a little bit. “If you need help,” he says, softer this time. “I can help. If you want.”

Had he _actually_ helped? Jon pointedly keeps his thoughts away from what he must not think about too hard lest he be cursed with the desperate need to do something about it again. He’s still _like that_. Maybe it didn’t even help. Maybe it made it _worse_. 

But then again, Jon thinks, maybe – just maybe – the issue was that they hadn’t tried hard enough. He _has_ heard of sex-related Leitners, before, even if he’d dismissed them all out of hand – something out of cheap erotica, he’d scoffed – and there’s never been any sort of a consistent logic to them, but _most_ of them have been reversible, through some method or another. 

(He tries not to think about the ones that weren’t. Or the ones the poor victims hadn’t found a cure for.)

It’s possible, then, that what he needs is someone else helping him. It’s not impossible that that’s the solution, at least. Any solution he can try should be explored. Isn’t that the scientific method?

“Thank you, Martin,” he finally says. “That is very generous of you.”

Martin smiles at him, then, and Jon’s pretty sure he spots relief as a distinct emotion on his face. 

–

Even with Martin telling him he’d be glad to help it’s still difficult to actually take him up on the offer. 

Not just because it’s Martin, who he’s used to thinking sort of mean thoughts about, or because he’s never been very good at initiating anything of this sort, especially not someone he’s not actually in a _relationship_ with, although those are both very relevant issues. It’s also –

He gets up from his desk and grimaces when the motion causes his legs to rub together briefly. He spreads his legs apart until nothing’s touching. It’s an awkward stance, shoulders stiff and knees slightly bent, and he can only imagine how he must look. Completely ridiculous, he’s sure. 

Martin lifts his head from the laptop he’s brought with him, because he’s doing his research in Jon’s office now, apparently, and looks at him with some concern in his eyes. “You alright?” he asks. 

Jon takes a step forward, legs still spread wide apart to avoid any accidental stimulation. “Um.”

Martin’s hands twitch, as if he gets it, suddenly. “Oh! Do you want –”

And Jon, so very tired and so very desperate, deflates. “Yes,” he says softly. “Please.”

It’s sex, Jon thinks gloomily. Not that he’s categorically opposed to it, but – it’s sex. He’s having sex with his coworker. Or, technically he’s having sex with his subordinate, which by all means is _worse_. He can’t even imagine how Elias would react if he found out, let alone anyone above _him_. How would he even begin to try to explain it? 

But Martin has this way of touching him that makes him feel like it’s not _really_ sex, or really anything that he should feel uncomfortable about at all. He doesn’t kiss him, but he holds him against his chest, and his hand, when he snakes it between Jon’s spread legs doesn’t falter when all it still finds is soft, springy skin. 

“Here?” he asks, breath hot against Jon’s ear. 

Jon mewls. “Yes.”

And this is where Martin could kiss his ear, or right behind it, but he doesn’t. Jon leans backwards until he can put his head on Martin’s shoulder, and Martin could mouth at his neck but he doesn’t. Jon doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. When he doesn’t it’s less personal. When he doesn’t it’s not sex. 

(And still he wishes he would, which is ridiculous, because it’s Martin, and because it’s not sex for pleasure. It’s utilitarian. Just Martin helping him from the goodness of his heart.)

“Come on,” Martin tells him, and Jon rolls his hips into the touch, breath hitching until he’s almost there, legs trembling, chest heaving. Martin grinds the heel of his hand into the singular spot Jon’s shown him, like he’d only needed to feel it once to find it again, despite the fact that it feels no different than the rest of the skin there, and Jon mewls and sobs and moans, eyes rolling back. 

And that is where Jon hits the invisible wall again. His hips jerk, and twist, and grind against Martin’s hand (and he imagines Martin telling him _shh, relax_ , imagines him grabbing his hip and holding him down bodily, making him take what he gives him and nothing else, and the thought of it just makes him more desperate, and just having thought of it at all makes hot shame and confusion flash through him –) but no matter how hard he tries all he can get is the relentless pleasure that stops building right where it’s too unbearable to handle. 

“Stop,” he eventually whimpers. It’s not going to happen, he thinks, and the worst of it has faded anyway. 

“Okay?” Martin asks. His hand disappears and then moves up beside Jon’s head, where it hovers for a few seconds as if he wants to thread his fingers through Jon’s hair but doesn’t. 

“I can’t,” Jon says. His entire body sags. “What if that’s it?”

“What?” Martin asks. “That you have to,” he gestures, and then blushes. “Come?” 

He hardly has any right to be embarrassed to talk about this when he’d just had Jon trying desperately to get off against his hand, Jon thinks. “Right,” he says out loud. 

Martin’s silent for a bit. “Thought you couldn’t.”

“I don’t think I can.”

Another quiet moment. “Then…?”

Jon shrugs. He feels a little silly. Of course it wouldn’t make sense for that to be a requirement, if it was impossible, and if it was irreversible there wouldn’t be a requirement at all. “I don’t know.”

And he doesn’t. Martin makes a sympathetic noise. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. 

“Okay,” he agrees. He kind of wants to lean back against Martin’s chest. The contact feels nice. “Yes, okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

This time Martin guides him to lie on the floor. 

Jon grumbles but he goes anyway. It feels nice to lie down. The floor is solid and surprisingly enough the support feels _good_ against his back. Martin moves to sit next to his hips, and when Jon goes to unbutton his trousers Martin closes his hand around Jon’s wrist.

“I got it,” he says, and smiles. Something in Jon’s chest does _something_. Something abstract and confusing enough that he doesn’t really have any words for it at all.

“Right,” he agrees. His voice comes out scratchy and dry. Martin’s smile doesn’t fade. 

For some reason Jon’d expected him to take his time stripping the trousers and underwear off of him, but Martin works efficiently, and before Jon can really process it they’re around his knees and Martin’s gently nudging his thighs further apart. Jon waits for him to touch him, tilting his hips up invitingly, but Martin stills and just _looks_ instead.

“Jon,” Martin says. 

“Mm?”

“This is a weird question, and I totally get it if you don’t want me to, but can I,” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, “do you want me to use my mouth?”

Jon’s brain short circuits. “What?”

“I knew it was a weird idea,” Martin mumbles, and then, louder, “sorry, sorry, it was a bad idea, forget about it –”

“No,” Jon protests, “no – I just –”

He thinks about how Martin doesn’t kiss him. How that makes this sex, but also not sex. It makes this more of a favour than it makes it _real_ sex for the sake of it. 

How he’d wished Martin would kiss his neck. Just a little bit. Just to see what it’d feel like.

“Please,” he sighs. “Yes, please.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asks. His eyes are so dark, Jon realizes vaguely. Like pools of crude oil. It’s a distracted metaphor but it’ll have to do for now. 

“Yes,” he says, and Martin makes a sound that Jon isn’t really sure how to categorize, and then he’s moving his entire body between Jon’s legs. 

“Ah,” says Jon. His thighs spread automatically to make room for Martin, who settles his hands on each of his thighs. Jon twitches at the contact. 

“Still okay?” Martin asks. There’s this deer in the headlights look on his face that Jon scrunches his face up at. 

“Yes,” he says, and wiggles his hips. Martin’s thumbs press into the hollows of his hips distractedly, and Jon stills. He shudders. Martin inhales deeply, as if grounding himself. 

“Alright,” Martin mumbles, and then he leans forward.

It doesn’t feel like much at first. Just damp heat against skin. Jon’s heart hammers in his chest as he tries to focus on the feeling of Martin’s mouth against the skin. The tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, trails a little pointed line down, and then up again. Jon tilts his hips impatiently until Martin’s tongue finds what his hand can locate so effortlessly. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, and Martin, pleased to have found what he’s looking for, seals his mouth around the patch of skin.

Jon’s entire body jolts. He tries to speak, but Martin’s tongue presses down and pokes firmly against the centre of the strip of skin mostly in his mouth, his lips still a point of sucking pressure over the rest of it, and the only sound he can manage is a wordless mewling whine. 

It feels like pressing on a fresh bruise, or getting shocked by a bad wire, or burning your hand on the metal handle of a hot frying pan. Jon’s hands find Martin’s hair and tangle in it desperately, blunt fingernails scratching against his scalp. Martin hums in response, and the vibration makes him sob. 

Jon could pass out. He feels like he’s on the edge of consciousness, hanging on by a thread, and Martin doesn’t _let up_. Every so often he pulls away for just a few seconds so that he can tongue at the sensitive skin, fingers pressing into the skin around his tongue gently, petting over the less sensitive skin right below, as if trying to spread folds that aren’t actually there, and then he seals his mouth over the patch of skin again.

It’s not how you would suck a cock, Jon thinks dimly. Any kind of a cock. It’s more like how you would give someone a hickey, and even then it’s just a little wrong, but Martin’s teeth graze over the sensitive skin and Jon damn near shouts, pushes his hips forward to get more touch, more pressure, _more_ , and Martin keeps giving it to him, and Jon could _kiss_ him. 

Eventually he has to tell him to stop. His muscles ache, and there’s saliva running down his skin, no doubt pooling up on the floor right below him. Martin pulls away with a wet sound, and looks at Jon, lips cherry red and slick. 

“Do you want to stop?” he asks. Jon thinks he can feel the question of _should we keep going to make sure? Get it all over with?_ radiating off of him. 

“I need a break,” he says mournfully. Tears are drying on his cheeks. He feels sucked dry. How fitting, he thinks.

Martin nods, and hastily crawls out from between his legs. “Of course,” he says. “Should I leave? Give you some privacy?”

“Stay,” Jon says immediately, and then, as an afterthought, “please.” 

There’s a horrible second where Jon isn’t sure if Martin is going to stay. If he’s going to tell him he needs to go home. It’s _got_ to be the curse, he reasons, that is making him feel so upset over the idea of Martin leaving him for even a minute. 

“Okay,” Martin replies softly. “I’ll stay.”

–

Jon dozes for a little while, right there on the floor, but eventually he has to get up. Martin looks at him with this look on his face that Jon doesn’t really know how to categorize, or what to call it, and Jon, suddenly feeling both lonely and vulnerable, opens his arms very slowly.

Martin inhales sharply. “Can I hold you?” he asks, as if it wasn’t Jon who silently asked to be held. 

“Yes,” he agrees, and Martin sits down on the floor as well, opens his own arms. 

Jon half-crawls over and settles down slowly, looking for a comfortable spot, and finally he ends up half-straddling one of Martin’s thighs, his arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Comfortable?” Martin asks. He looks nervous from up close, and Jon wants to apologize, to tell him he’ll leave and go home, that he’ll take care of the rest of this on his own, but before Jon can tell him any of that Martin wraps his own arms around Jon’s waist and pulls him closer. 

No leaving, then, Jon supposes. He slumps forward slightly, just enough to put his head on Martin’s shoulder. It’s nice, he thinks. Warm and comfortable. A voice in his head helpfully tells him the word he’s looking for is _safe_. Jon pushes it away. No reason for all that.

Eventually the thigh between his legs becomes distracting more than it is comfortable. When he shifts or Martin takes a deep breath it presses up, right against where he’s still sensitive from the last time he _almost_ got there, and Jon fidgets until he can’t ignore it anymore. 

“Martin,” he says softly, some urgency in his voice, and Martin hums lightly, like he understands. Like he’s just been waiting for Jon to decide he wants to do something about it. Maybe he does, Jon thinks. In any case he shifts slightly so that his thigh is lodged between Jon’s legs firmer, more securely, jiggles it slightly, and Jon gasps. 

“Good?” Martin asks softly. The hands on Jon’s waist gently squeeze, and when Jon rolls his hips experimentally Martin lets out a soft gasp that Jon can only barely hear. 

“Mm,” Jon agrees. Martin’s thigh is warm and broad and soft and solid, all muscle underneath the layer of soft padding, and it feels good to grind against it lazily. Nothing like the electric feeling of Martin’s tongue, or the hard pressure of the heel of his hand, but it feels good regardless. Almost dreamy. Tingly and distant. 

It’s hard to say how long they sit there for. Jon presses his face into the soft skin of Martin’s neck and pants, and Martin’s hands on his waist tighten every so often, fingers digging into the flesh to make Jon arch his back. It’s easy to lose himself into the pointless chase of sensation. He can’t get as close to the edge as he had with Martin’s mouth, or his hands, or his own hands, but it feels nice. Almost normal.

In fact it feels normal enough that when Jon finally gets up from Martin’s lap, legs trembling and heart pounding, he expects to find his trousers wet and clinging to his skin. Instead all he can feel is the pleasant buzzing thrum that he can’t seem to get rid of. 

“I need to go home,” he says, although it’s the opposite of what he wants to say. Wants to say _come home with me_. Or _let’s just keep doing this all night_ , maybe. It’s just because of how desperate he is, he knows, but the heat of Martin’s body, his broad hands, and how _gentle_ he’s been with him (and he really doesn’t deserve it at all, does he?) makes him want to never let go of him. 

Martin, if he feels anything remotely similar, doesn’t voice it. “Yeah,” he agrees. His voice is rough. It suddenly occurs to Jon that this might have affected him, as well, and he blushes so hard and abruptly that the rush of blood to his head leaves him dizzy for a few seconds. “Walk you out?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “Yes, I’d like that.”


	5. Chapter 5

Jon wakes up the next morning feeling bone-tired and like he’s overslept by hours at the same time. 

Like he’s been stuffed with bad quality sleep. Sort of like gorging himself on subpar quality buffet food until he’s too full to move. He sits up slowly, rubs his eyes. It’s only a few minutes before his alarm is going to go off, the digital clock on the bedside table tells him. Might as well wake up, then. 

He stretches his arms above his head, rolls his head from side to side. His muscles ache lightly. His jaw cracks when he yawns. 

And his sleep shorts, clinging to his skin, are wet and uncomfortable. 

He shoots up and out of bed, shedding the shorts as fast as he can, an uncoordinated, sleepy hand cupping his crotch gently, entire body shaking with his heart in his throat. And there he finally finds –

“Oh,” he says out loud, “oh, thank God.”

–

He feels oddly bouncy the whole way to work. Like he’s been filled with helium and his body is trying to lift itself up like a balloon into the ceiling. It’s just – he feels _normal_. At the door to the institute he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and then he opens the door and steps inside.

“Did it work?” Martin asks as soon as he sees him, voice hushed into a husky whisper. 

Jon gives him a smile so radiant it has trouble fitting onto his face. He’s so grateful it takes every ounce of his willpower to not take his head in his hands and _kiss_ him. “Thank you,” he whispers, his own voice cracking. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin gives him a nervous, excited smile. “Oh, thank god.”

He takes a hesitant step forward and then pauses. His hands hover in midair, like he was going to hug Jon before thinking better of it. Jon watches his face fall slowly. Like he expects Jon to scowl at him. His own heart drops, and aches, and a flood of shame fills the empty pit in his stomach. 

“Come on,” he says softly, and opens his arms. Martin’s face lights up. 

His arms are strong around Jon. His chest is warm against Jon’s body. For a second he thinks about nuzzling into the bare skin of his throat. He doesn’t.

–

The first wave crashes over him while he’s taking some files back to their proper place. 

He stills. Frowns. A rush of heat settles in his belly and spills down to his cock like a slow trickle of pleasantly warm water, which in turn makes it stir in his underwear. He should’ve gotten off before he left for work, Jon realizes with a sinking feeling. Hindsight and all that. 

He stands still for a few seconds but nothing else happens. After a few moments he swears he can _feel_ the sensitive head of his cock retreating back into its hood, and the pool of heat disperses again.

He can last until tonight, he thinks confidently. He’s back to normal again, after all. All he has to do is get through the work day, like he’s done hundreds of times before.

–

He lasts until lunch. 

There’s a few more waves of – something. It’s just arousal, he thinks, and pushes it down. It’s hardly the first time he’s gotten _horny_ (and he winces at the word, how crude it feels, even just thinking it) at an inconvenient time. It’s hardly the first time he’s felt like if he didn’t do something about it immediately he might explode. He’s dealt with it before. 

It’s just that it keeps getting _worse_. Stronger. Harder to ignore. 

And the waves are _longer_ , too. Almost like something invisible is touching him; reaching inside of him and manipulating every sensitive part of him, making him hyperaware of the existence of his cock and the slick slide of his underwear against his slit, the now-slick tip of his cock. Like every time he settles into his work something touches him and within a few seconds works him to full arousal again, making the shifting of his legs almost upsettingly loud with how wet he is. 

He opens his legs slightly. Sighs. Nobody should walk in, not right now, he thinks, and against his better judgement he slides a hand into his trousers, hips already bucking into the touch, eager for something more solid. 

And of course that is the exact moment Martin chooses to walk in without knocking.

“Oh!” he yelps. “Jesus, Jon.” 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Jon says defensively, pulling his hand back out. The tips of his ears get hot with embarrassment. This really needs to _stop_ happening. “I think the curse is still –”

Martin’s face twists. “I thought we fixed it!”

Jon’s hips shudder and twitch. This wave of _pleasure_ (because that’s what it is, he thinks desperately. Not even just arousal, or even supernaturally strong arousal. It’s just _pleasure_ ) rushes through his entire body. His cock pulses and twitches in his underwear as he clenches around nothing. 

Jon moans, and then he makes a little hiccuping noise. “Sorry,” he says, voice hitching up. “I swear I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Okay, well,” Martin says. His voice is half hysteria, half embarrassment. “Should I leave? What should I –”

Jon shakes his head silently. “I don’t know.” He doesn’t quite want to ask for _help._ It seems overdramatic. It feels a little demeaning, almost. Like when he’d asked for help earlier it’d been warranted, but now it’s just sex. Like this is just asking – no, _begging_ , which is worse – to have sex with his coworker. 

“I could hold you again,” Martin suggests. His voice wavers. “If you want me to.” 

And Jon closes his eyes and thinks about it, and his body seems to like the idea, because his cock twitches again, hard, and he moans again. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, alright.”

Martin hurries over to him, and Jon climbs out of his chair with concentrated effort. Martin puts his hands on his shoulders and pulls him closer. For a moment he just holds him, just like that, the both of them standing very still, Martin’s breath steady in Jon’s hair and Jon’s arms stiffly by his sides, but then Martin sits down in the chair and pulls Jon into his lap gently, slowly. 

He settles with his legs hooked over Martin’s thighs, head resting against Martin’s chest. It’s more comfortable than sitting here alone had been, he thinks. It’s so nice to be held like this. He feels _secure_. 

It’s just a few moments that he’s able to just sit there, though, before the pulsing heat comes back and makes his entire body shudder. “Sorry,” he mumbles, still a little embarrassed. 

“Don’t apologize,” Martin says softly. Jon closes his eyes and licks his lips slowly. Martin makes a quiet noise, almost like a half-moan, which Jon doesn’t really know how to react to. Not that he has the time to, because a wave so strong he almost feels like he should bend his body in half racks through his body like he’s been shocked, and he cries out. 

They settle like that. Jon hisses and mewls and bucks his hips as waves of pleasure rush through him and settle again, something vague building and breaking again in the pit of his stomach. Martin doesn’t try to touch him or comment on the sounds or the movements, which Jon is grateful for, because he’s having a hard time focusing on anything long enough to process it in much detail. 

“I think it’s getting worse,” Jon mumbles eventually, and shifts slightly so that he can open his legs to keep his thighs from rubbing against the jutting tip of his sensitive cock. The building pressure is starting to turn into what feels suspiciously like pain. 

“Should I touch you?” Martin asks, unsure. “Or should you touch yourself?”

“No,” Jon says mournfully. His body twitches. He thinks about touching himself directly and shudders again. Imagines the pain of touching what already feels rubbed raw and more sensitive than what should be possible. 

“Just sit there, then, yeah?” Martin says. His voice goes soft and gentle. Jon mewls as another wave of pleasure-pain goes through him. 

Martin presses a light kiss into the top of his head and Jon freezes. His heart skips a beat, for God’s sake. Like some sort of a teenager with a crush. He whines pitifully, arms tightening around Martin’s body, and Martin makes a sympathetic sound. 

Jon almost wants Martin to tell him it’s going to be okay. That Martin’s got him. That he’s alright. 

Instead Martin is mostly quiet. Jon is quiet, too, aside from the gasping sobs that he can’t hold back when the waves stop pausing in between, his cock twitching angrily with no relief. His underwear is soaked so thoroughly it clings to his body. “It hurts,” he whimpers.

“I know,” Martin mumbles gently, and brushes a lock of hair away from his face. He doesn’t know, Jon thinks, but he’ll take the comforting words. He’d take anything right now. 

“What if it kills me,” Jon moans miserably. His entire body goes taut, hips bucking up into nothing. A high-pitched, strangled whine punches its way out of his throat. “Oh my God. What if I die?”

“You’re not going to die,” Martin says soothingly. He can’t know that, Jon thinks wildly, but Martin’s arms are so comfortable, so secure that for a moment Jon really does believe him. “Just hold on.”

So Jon does. His hips twitch and cant and tears stream down his face, sobs pulsing through his body with the pulses of pain that fades into pleasure that fades into pain again. 

Martin’s thigh slips between his legs. It’d felt good yesterday. He’d thought that today it’d hurt. That the feeling of it against his cock would make him pass out from the pain. Instead it feels better than anything he’s felt in his life. Another jerky shudder passes through him, and he mewls into Martin’s neck, fingers grasping onto any part of Martin he can reach as hard as he can.

“Jon?” Martin asks, concerned. One hand slides underneath Jon’s shirt and rubs a firm little circle into the skin of his waist gently. 

“Mm,” Jon says in response. He rolls his hips slowly, experimentally, and then cries out when his cock catches between Martin’s thigh and his body. He picks up speed until his hips are thrusting wildly against the solid shape of Martin’s lovely, warm leg, little punched out _oh_ sounds pouring out of his mouth. 

Martin’s breathing comes out a little fast, too, then. It does something to Jon. The heat in the pit of his belly twists and curls around itself. He swears he can feel a gush of slick rush out of him with the rhythmic twitching of his cock. 

And – he’s not sure if how fast he’s getting there is because of how good it feels or because the waves of almost unbearable pleasure independent of his actions are finally, mercifully breaking enough in intensity to allow him to tumble over the edge, but after a few desperate minutes of grinding against Martin his entire body tenses up, cock twitching hard, and he finally, finally comes. 

His mouth falls open, eyes squeezing shut as his vision whites out. He half-expects something close to a scream to force its way out, but the noise he makes is a quiet, mewling whimper. His hips jerk and then still, his entire body going rigid as he shudders and _sobs_ through what is barely even an orgasm as much as it’s the release of something much deeper. 

For a moment he thinks he’s actually died. His ears ring. He can’t see. His entire body feels like it’s somewhere very, very far away. Like he’s halfway across the world. Somewhere where he couldn’t even see his body if his eyes worked. It’s not scary, he realizes hazily. Just safe. Like he’s somewhere where he can’t touch or be touched. Just floating in an endless void. Nothing to hold onto. 

When he becomes aware of his surroundings again his face is wet. He adjusts slightly. The thigh between his legs starts to feel like too much, so he clumsily moves until he’s properly in Martin’s lap again. 

“Better?” Martin asks him when he slumps against Martin and nuzzles into the soft skin of his neck. “Did you…?”

“Yes,” Jon says. His voice comes out sounding much more miserable than he feels. He buries his face further into Martin’s neck in search of some comfort. Martin’s hesitant, broad hands comes to cup the back of his head to keep him there. Jon inhales deeply, slowly. 

For a long while they just sit there, quiet and trembling. Martin’s big and soft and warm and Jon tries to get as close to him as he can, and Martin doesn’t stop him. If anything he wraps his arms around Jon’s back gently to hold him closer. Jon wants to sink into him. He wants to be _engulfed_ , just like where he’d just gone. Somewhere safe and abstract. Somewhere where he can’t touch anything or be touched. 

Eventually Jon becomes vaguely aware of the fact that he can damn near _smell_ Martin’s arousal where he’s sitting. The fidget of his legs. His shallow breathing. 

“Do you,” he starts to ask but loses his courage. Tries again. “Martin. Do you want to.” He does a vague hand gesture. His hand barely listens to his brain and he frowns at it. 

Martin blushes so hard Jon thinks he can feel the heat. “I’m fine,” he says in a rush. 

Jon ponders on this for a moment. His own quivering legs. His shaking hands. The part of his brain that’s still trying to reboot. 

“Another time?” he asks before he can lose his courage again, voice going up at the end enough for it to crack. 

Martin makes a surprised noise. “Are you serious?”

“If you want to,” Jon hurries to add. “Sorry, that was presumptuous of me. I don’t know what got into me. I am so sorry.”

“No, I –” Martin takes a ragged breath, “yes. But. Let me buy you dinner first.”

Jon giggles hysterically. “Shouldn’t I be the one buying you dinner?”

“Why?”

Jon shakes his head. “I owe you?”

Martin laughs. “I don’t – fine. Whatever.”

Jon’s suddenly extremely aware of how wet his underwear is. He grimaces. “I need to,” he nods towards the door. “Bathroom.”

“Oh!” Martin exclaims. “Of course. I need to get back to work, don’t I? Wouldn’t want for my work performance to suffer.” He makes a little nervous _heh_ sound. 

His _work performance._ Jon’s about to tell him to stop worrying about _that_ , for god’s sake, but when he opens his mouth Martin hurries to add “kidding! But I really do need to get something done. I think Elias might have cameras installed in the bullpen.”

Jon nods. Martin, for a moment, looks like he’s going to lean forward to kiss him, but he stops before their faces are close enough to touch. “Alright,” Jon says softly. “I’ll just…” 

The rest of the sentence trails off into nothing. Martin unwraps his arms from around him and Jon gets up and then grimaces and flushes at the wet sound his underwear makes when he separates his legs to take a step forward. Martin doesn’t comment on it, though, so he keeps walking. 

He lingers in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you later,” he says, trying to sound confident. 

Martin smiles at him. It’s a little unsure, but Jon thinks it’s genuine, too. “Yeah,” he says. “Later.” 

Later. Later. Jon walks out. A few moments later he hears the squeak of the office chair as Martin gets up to walk out as well. Jon imagines the sight of him emerging from Jon’s office, red-faced, clothes wrinkled. He pushes the image out of his head. 

He remembers to lock the bathroom door this time.

At least there’s _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how the fuck did he pee all these days.

**Author's Note:**

> cw,  
> \- walking in on someone  
> \- mentions of internalized acephobia and past dysphoria  
> \- ace ch whos gone from sex disinterested to sex neutral over time (in case this needs warning - just want to be careful)  
> \- i dont know if this is a cw per se but jon is strongly implied to masturbate like, regularly, i cant figure out if this is something to warn for  
> \- jon is canon typical mean to martin  
> \- for people who get touchy about jon being judged harshly for things that werent really his fault there is some internal monologue about deserving/not deserving martin's help after being rude to him but its not particularly detailed or dwelled upon


End file.
